


Learning Russian

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 17:36:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6385816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gaby puts her rudimentary knowledge of Russian to good use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning Russian

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on fanfiction.net in 2015 and is now being crossposted here along with the rest of my work.

Ugh. Cocktail parties. Gaby was not a fan. The tittering, the mind-numbing small talk, the heels—all right, it was mostly the heels. They were what turned gatherings like this from boring to downright torture.

Gaby liked a lot of things about her new job. The dresses were nice. The jewelry was sometimes all right, sometimes clunky and bothersome. She adored the sunglasses, as evidenced by how many she now owned (and how many Solo had bought her). But these damn high heels she now had to wear all the time drove her nuts. She was still learning how to walk in them properly.

Seeing as no one was currently looking at her, Gaby sat down on the couch and slipped her feet out of her shoes. That was  _much_  better.

But she was still bored.

Bored and… other things.

She remembered how she'd woken up this morning and a flame lit in the pit of her stomach. She'd swum to consciousness with Illya kissing her neck, one of his hands stroking her stomach. Sharing a bed was a luxury that they technically couldn't afford, but who cared about rules when she had the man she loved hot and heavy between her legs, his weight warm and reassuring over hers?

When she remembered how his fingers had dug into her thighs and parted her, sliding through the mess they'd created to wring a second orgasm out of her, one just so he could gaze at her as she fell apart—it made her entire body shiver and she had to press her legs together.

Across the room, Solo was chatting up their mark's cousin. They were supposedly talking about rare book collections but judging by how many innuendoes that were flying between them Gaby was pretty sure they wouldn't be talking for much longer. And on the other side of the room, acting as one of the waiters for the evening…

Gaby stretched back, leaning her cheek against the arm of the couch and beckoning him toward her like she wanted another cocktail. Illya's stony expression softened when he approached her, his eyes melting like a glacier as they gazed on her. She didn't think she'd ever get tired of seeing that look.

She rather looked forward to the other look that would soon be on his face. She'd been learning Russian from both him and Solo, but their methods had been quiet different. Illya had been methodical, teaching her grammar and sentence structure and the like. Solo had just thrown words and phrases at her head and happily taught her any filthy joke she desired. Illya hadn't known that she'd been receiving extra tutelage from Solo, nor the kinds of words that Solo had taught her. Add to that the fact that she and Illya had only (finally) gotten together—both romantically and sexually—two weeks ago and she was certain that what she was about to say would get him to drop his jaw.

She curled her fingers, beckoning him even closer, and Illya leaned down so that he could hear her better. She smiled up at him, a tiny thing, so as not to give too much away. One final glance around the room told her that no one was paying them any mind, so she raised herself up and placed her mouth right by his ear. She made sure to whisper.

"Я хочу чтобы ты трахнул меня."

_I want you to fuck me._

The effect was instantaneous. Illya nearly dropped the tray he was holding, his reflexes catching it just in time and tightening on it until his knuckles were white and trembling. But not, Gaby knew, with anger. The look in his eyes was not the white-hot of his rages. It was dark, his pupils blown wide. And his jaw, instead of tightening, went slack, his lips parted. She could see his chest fluttering under his jacket as his breath stuttered.

"Gaby." His voice was hoarse. "You are playing a dangerous game here."

"Our mark hasn't even shown yet, he's notoriously late to these things." Her gaze flicked down to his mouth before she looked up into his eyes again. "Illya…"

She rubbed her upper thighs together, her short dress giving him an excellent view, and she licked her lips. His eyes zeroed in on the movement, flicking back and forth between her legs and her mouth like he wasn't sure which one to look at. Bingo.

"Meet me in bathroom. One minute."

He stood up and disappeared—probably to set the tray down somewhere. Gaby counted to ten, then stood up languidly, making her way to the bathroom. She swept her gaze over the room just before she entered. Solo was still charming the cousin, although he was standing much closer to her now. Everyone else was still having a grand old time. No one paid her any mind.

Gaby entered the bathroom and locked the door behind her.

The instant the locked clicked he was on her, licking deep into her mouth and getting his hands under her thighs to lift her up against the door.

"When did you learn to talk like that?" He growled.

"I wanted to surprise you." She allowed her smile to take over her face this time. "Surprised?"

His only answer was to kiss her again. She wrapped her legs around his waist and set about undoing his pants. They didn't have time for more, which was a pity, since Illya Kuryakin's naked body was a thing of beauty and he seemed to think the same about her, if the love bites he scattered all over her body were a sign. But this—the way he growled against her neck, the hint of teeth scraping along her skin, how he devoured her mouth like he was going to burn into ash if he didn't kiss her right that fucking moment—this was more than enough.

"Please," she whispered, repeating the word in German and in Russian. She yanked on his pants, not caring all that much if she was possibly tearing them. The cover didn't matter, the mission didn't matter—she needed him inside her, now, and everything else was extraneous.

"You cannot keep interrupting our missions," Illya warned her. "This—this cannot keep happening."

Gaby hummed in response, sealing her lips around the fluttering pulse at his neck. Someone would probably notice if she turned up with a hickey she hadn't had five minutes ago, but nobody would notice a waiter. She could leave as many mottled purple marks as she pleased. And she knew, for all he would deny it to Solo, that Illya liked it when she left her mark on him.

Illya let out a groan and she knew she had won. In another moment she had his pants undone and then he was repositioning her, lining himself up for her.

He lifted up her dress, not even bothering to take off her underwear—just hooking two of his fingers and moving it aside. She bit her lip, relishing the slight burn along with the pleasurable feeling of being filled. She liked this angle. Their height difference was astounding (and a source of endless hilarity to Solo) and even now he loomed over her. With his hands bracketed on either side of her and his shoulders and head arching above her, she was completely enclosed by him. It made her feel safe.

Ironic, seeing as this was a former KGB agent, but Gaby had given up caring about that a long time ago. Her life was a study in ironies.

The pace they set was fast and the door wasn't that sturdy, so Illya wrapped an arm around her lower back, keeping her cushioned and close to him so he could drive into her. She clutched at his back, shoving her arms underneath his shirt to get at the skin beneath, dig her nails in so the sting would linger long after they'd parted. He couldn't kiss her at this angle, so she settled for pressing her mouth along his collarbone, hot and openmouthed. She loved this pace, the roughness of it. She craved the feel of his desperation, how much he wanted her, his thrusts fast and erratic. She rolled her hips in time with his, soaking in the words he dropped into her hair, his voice hoarse and soft. She only understood some of them—they were garbled and he was speaking too quickly—but she got the gist.

He loved her.

And that, that made the frantic lust burn even brighter.

She could feel him getting close and she dug her heels in. Suddenly she was lifted, held against his now-damp shirt with just his arm around her lower back, her upper body still braced against the trembling wood of the door, and the angle was different and  _perfect_. He had taken his other hand away from the door and slid it between them, slipping a little in the wetness from both him and her, working and finding her clit to press and rub and tease until she had to bite at his chest to keep from screaming. She wanted to scream, she wanted to scream his name so badly, she wanted him to go faster, snap his hips harder, press down a little more firmly and then, then—

Everything was shaking. Illya jerked and trembled around her, and the poor door wasn't faring too well either. And she was shaking, shaking inside, she was a lightning rod and she had caught the spark, she would soon be aflame.

Her tremors had just started to subside when she found herself yanked higher, dragged up his front as Illya hauled her up so he could kiss her. There was no frenzy in this kiss. It was languid and soft. But it was deep, oh, just as deep as the ones that had come before, and it was not lacking in heat. She could feel his chest heaving beneath hers as he sought to get his breath back, determined to keep kissing her all the same.

When they finally pulled back and she could see his face, she couldn't help but smile. Her hands came up to frame it, the stubble scratching lightly at her palms. Illya never smiled for anyone. Not even for Solo, no matter how close in friendship the two men had become. But he always smiled for her. Now it was the lazy, sparked-eye smile of one who is looking at the thing they love most.

It almost made her wish she had a Polaroid.

He set her down and kept a hold of her when her legs wobbled. "You look a mess, chop shop girl."

Gaby looked down at herself, and then back up at him. "Speak for yourself."

Illya's shirt was a total loss. It had sweat stains all over it, a long smear from when he'd hauled Gaby up to kiss her, and one of his top buttons was missing. His pants were undone and had a few small dark spots on them, and his hair was in complete disarray. There were marks all over his neck and there, just above his left pectoral, was an unmistakable bite mark.

Gaby peered around him to look in the mirror. Her hair was a bit of a mess, but she figured she could salvage that. Her dress was patterned, thank God, because she was pretty sure she had some suspicious stains on it as well. A fine sheen of sweat coated her skin, making it shine—and not in a good way. But at least there weren't any hickeys and no furniture had been broken this time.

Illya wordlessly stepped back to allow her use of the sink while he grabbed tissues to try and clean up his clothes. She splashed water on her neck, chest, arms, and face. Good thing she wasn't wearing any of that makeup stuff. She'd put her foot down when Solo had suggested it. She had to finger comb her hair and redo the ponytail so it wasn't quite as nice as it had been before, but it would do.

She turned back to look at Illya. He'd gotten his clothes to look neat, but there were still sweat stains on his shirt and a button missing. She crooked her fingers at him and he bent down obligingly, allowing her to fix up his hair. She  _might_  have run her fingers through it for longer than necessary, but judging by the pleased rumble that leaked out of Illya's throat, he didn't mind.

Finally, they were as presentable as they could possibly be.

She left the bathroom first, slipping out and making her way through the crowd to snag a cocktail. When she turned, she was met with Solo's best I'm-judging-you face.

"I don't suppose you could teach me some more Russian?" She asked, taking a sip.


End file.
